Conscience
by Commie-EO-Commodore
Summary: House guiltily actualizes what he's fantasized about for so long...and confronts his conscience.


People think I don't have a conscience, which is a stupid, gross misconception I could only expect _people_ to make. I very much have one, I just ignore most (all?) of the time. Like now.

Cameron's kissing me. I wish I could tune out the fucking voice inside of my head and just enjoy the first twenty-something that's thrown herself at me since disco died. She's attractive, I've never denied that. Didn't take me long after I'd met her to understand why she'd want to bare those remarkably perky twins to me, though. I'm _damaged_. At least in her eyes. Between the pain and my work I've never bothered to sit down and throw psychobabble at the wall until I understood myself. Better to stick with "complicated". Chicks dig it.

Certainly she does. My conscience is the only thing that's kept me from taking her in the supply closet ever since I realized she liked me. Waste of her time, but no loss for me. I could have fucked her every day for the last three years, twice on the days we solved cases even. And there hasn't been a day that I haven't wanted to, or thought about it, or jacked off to my mind's images, even when I had Stacy here. But Cameron doesn't understand lust yet. She thinks she does, sleeping with Chase and dumping the wombat the second he returned her feelings, but Cameron will never let her panties boss her around.

I'm dying to pretend this means nothing to her. I'm making sure her tongue is occupied so she doesn't say anything stupid like _I love you_ or _You feel the same way! I'm so happy._ God knows she might start naming our children after I'm done. Definitely go with the condom today, Greg.

All my inhibitions about sleeping with her vanish as soon as her bra falls away. It's red, lacy, obviously put on and even bought for me, but I don't care. Her youth is obvious in the smooth pearly firmness of her breasts. They're small, much smaller than Stacy's or Lisa's, but stand completely upright even as her support is somewhere on my kitchen floor. Cameron's nipples become erect as soon as they are exposed to air. I have to see them glistening. I bend down, ignoring the pain in my leg, and move my mouth over her pinkness. Even the color of her nipples seem innocent. I suck one and then the other until her entire chest is flushed deep red, and then move downward.

Something I bragged daily about in college was my ability to undo a woman's pants—button and zipper-- with my mouth. Lucky for me, Cameron was wearing a skirt and I didn't need to embarrass myself trying something I hadn't done in ten years. I pause my mouth at the bottom of her stomach, inhaling her, and move my right hand to her ankle and slowly massage my way up.

No panties. Maybe that's why they can't boss her around.

I lower my mouth a few inches and begin breathing onto her thin skirt as my fingers move upward. Her breath becomes raspy and she lets out a small moan—I haven't even gone inside her—and her wetness tells me she isn't faking it.

After a pause I tear her skirt down. It slides down her lotion-smoothed legs with no resistance. She shivers, with cold or desire or embarrassment I don't know. I have to take another pause to drink her in. Cameron looks out of place in my apartment, a Monet in a punk rocker's van. I stand up, ignoring the shooting pain in my leg, and drive three fingers into her without warning.

"Undress me," I bite her ear. It is the first thing either of us has said since she walked in the door. She can barely breathe but clumsily tears at my buttons. I barely miss a beat to switch hands—I put four in this time—so I can let my shirt fall to the floor. I pump relentlessly, the sounds of my fingers blanketed by her barely controlled low moans, until I feel her on the edge. As quickly as I begun I withdraw, not letting her finish.

Cameron catches her breath, letting her rapid pants slow. For someone like her this could be the moment she realizes she's caught in the middle of fucking her boss. Such a realization could lead to her leaving, but I could risk it. She wants to feel bad, here's her chance before her mind races to fast to understand the meaning of the word.

As soon as she meets my eyes I lean over. "No ride is free." I let my hands casually brush over her breasts, but as soon as she gasps I withdraw. "And you get what you pay for." She begins to understand and it is her turn to kneel in my kitchen. I don't let her touch me until my pants and boxers have vanished from my field of vision. She has no need to make me full; the mental image of her breasts has brought me to orgasm before and I was already beginning to hold back. I feel her still trembling as she wraps her hands around the sides of my thighs and leans.

Her tongue begins shyly and she is slow to close my entirety. I mentally thank her for her hesitation; an ambush would have finished me completely. By the time she begins to bob her head I have regained my measure of control. She kneads her knuckles into my good leg, massaging me with fingers I've pretended are on me more than once. I plunge my hands into her hair, gripping it to hold myself back, but I know I can't last too much longer. I pull her away from me by her hair. She sucks her breath in with the small pain and looks up at me once more.

I extend my hand down to her and she stands. My other hand still gripping her tightly by hair that's softer even than her legs, I press her lips to mine, hoisting her legs on either side of me with a grunt that doesn't mask my effort. I taste a mixture of myself and her in her tongue and the sensation nearly finishes me. All thoughts of the condom, children, leg pain, pain, cases, Wilson, Stacy, Lisa, and medicine leave me with that taste. With strength I can't imagine most of the time, I slam her frame against my front door, entering her without a sound.

Her moaning begins almost instantaneously. I plunge my teeth onto her breasts, sucking as if I am fucking her in two places as once. Her head bangs on my door and she is so far gone she can't even notice. Her scratches take me beyond my silence. I do not call her name and she does not dare to say mine; we moan and cry out together because in the final moments I am no longer Greg and she is no longer Cameron, we are fucking and I am thrusting and pumping and despite her age it is hard for her to even match my pace or think about who can hear and who can care and her love and her lust and my fucking conscience.


End file.
